


fall banquet pr stunts

by flybbfly



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9970847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: Kevin decides Neil needs a female date for the fall banquet for PR purposes. Luckily, there are two lovely single ladies on the team.Fake dating shenanigans ensue. Pretty equally features Renee/Allison and Andrew/Neil.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I got a bunch of requests for andrew/neil fake dating and one or two for renee/allison fake dating so...i present to you…………..exactly what no one wanted.
> 
> It ended up long so I'm posting on AO3 instead of tumblr for readability purposes. Enjoy!

It's Kevin's idea, which is why it's a stupid idea, but Neil isn't supposed to be doing anything that could potentially jeopardize his career (and, via that jeopardization, jeopardize his life) and so for the fall banquet, it's decided that they will choose female dates. 

“Are you pissed?” Neil says, stealing Andrew's cigarette from between his fingertips. “Didn't think you cared.”

“I don't.”

“You don't care about anything, right?”

“Right.”

“You know I don't buy that, right? You don't not care much, you just don't care much often,” Neil says, which is true, except that Andrew's been caring a lot more, a lot more often ever since Neil entered the picture. It makes sense. Neil is so irritating. 

“You take Reynolds. I take Renee,” Andrew says. “It is not that different from sitting at the banquet without dates.”

“ _I_ know that,” Neil says. He takes a cheeky drag of Andrew's cigarette, and when he exhales he has that stupid knowing smile he's been getting more and more lately. Cocky.

Andrew steals his cigarette back. “So do I,” Andrew says. “I'm not pissed.

*

The thing about Allison Reynolds is, she's fucking relentless. Intensity piled on intensity piled on anger decorated with luxury makeup and designer clothing.

She knows this about herself. It's why she's not going to stop until she has Neil Josten in the closest thing she can find to a Hugo Boss tailored suit in west nowhere land, South Carolina. 

He prefers bland nothing clothing, and Andrew always dresses him up in goth costumes, but Allison takes him to the only high end department store within two hours of PSU, a behemoth in Columbia that's mostly patronized by elderly society women who wear too much perfume.

Neil is reluctant the entire time, but she gets him in a suit eventually, a nice one, navy to go with his hair and eyes, nice burnt sepia tie because there is no way she's putting Neil Josten in a politician's red white and blue no matter how funny it would be, and then she sits him down while she flicks through dresses.

“There's never anything here for anyone under the age of sixty,” she complains when she returns, her only acquisition—a pair of sky-high shoes that cost the same as Matt's truck, she imagines—in one hand. “I'm going to have to order a dress online or something. What's your footwear situation?”

“Sneakers, mostly.”

“Work with me, Josten. You don't wear sneakers to Eden's Twilight.”

“I'm not wearing Doc Martens to the fall banquet, Allison.”

“Why not?” Allison says. “Might be hot.”

The look Neil levels at her is—hilarious. Truly. She grins in his face. 

“Fine,” she says. “Let's find you some wingtips.”

“I don't have wings,” Neil says, nonplussed, and Allison can't even bring herself to find it funny. The poor boy. A true American tragedy.

*

Watching Neil get dressed for the banquet (ducked in on himself in the back of the bus, like anyone is going to look in his direction when everyone knows about his plethora of issues) is fine up until the exact moment that he needs help doing up his tie and asks Allison for it. She looks at Neil like he's food, Andrew decides, and slinks over to make sure she doesn't accidentally strangle him.

He half thinks she's going to pass the mantle, but he and Neil are nothing, so he has no rights over tying Neil's tie. He wouldn't even if they were married. Neil can have his tie tied by anyone, and if he wants his tie tied by Allison then who is Andrew to stop him? 

It's just a tie, anyway. It doesn't matter who ties it.

Except that the effect is nice. Andrew isn't that picky when it comes to aesthetics except in the ways that he is quite picky, which include: his car; Neil's wardrobe. Usually Neil's clothing is a mess of nothingness, oversized colorless clothing designed to help him blend in even though it never does, really, but Allison has ignored all those preferences and gotten him a perfectly tailored navy suit and a dark orange tie. Andrew doesn't think he's ever seen Neil in a color that rich that isn't part of his exy uniform, and he looks good, even with his hair all mussed.

“Here, let me—Matt, do you have some gel or something?” Allison says. “Neil looks like he's just rolled out of bed.”

Matt tosses a tube across a couple of seats, and Andrew watches as Allison works her fingers through Neil's hair. Neil stays perfectly still in that way he has, like he's trying to make her comfortable even though she's the one touching him, and it really is annoying that Allison is good at these things. Except that it isn't annoying, because Neil looks nice now that she's finished her ministrations.

“I told Kevin some, like, grey eyeliner would look killer on you,” Allison says. “But he _insists_ it'll only enhance your bad boy imagine.”

Andrew imagines it, and he thinks Kevin's right. It might be something for their next trip to Eden's Twilight. The eyeliner and the scars. Andrew scratches absently at a spot on his jaw.

Neil half turns to look at him. “How do I look?” he says.

Andrew leans forward in the seat he's sitting in to loop his fingers around Neil's tie, then drag him back to the back of the bus. He ignores their teammates' whoops at this—his intentions are pure even if his thoughts aren't—and sits next to Neil. 

“You look fine,” Andrew says, which is more than he usually says unless they're already in bed, and Neil smiles, small, just for him.

*

Andrew sits between Renee and Kevin. Allison and Neil are on Kevin's other side, and Andrew is absolutely not annoyed about it, not even when photographers come by and ask them all to pose with their dates.

“Kevin, where's Thea tonight?”

“She had a game,” Kevin says, making his absolutely transparent reporter face at them. “Otherwise, she would've loved to be here, reconnect with some old teammates—and rivals, of course.”

But the celebrity power couple of the night is former fucking debutante Allison Reynolds and world's most antagonistic runaway Neil Josten, and photographers flock to them the same way followers flock to Reynolds' Instagram.

“When did you two get together?”

“Give her a kiss for the cameras, Neil!”

“Allison, what do you see in him? He's shorter than you!”

Neil just stands next to Allison, visibly stiff.

“You look like you hate each other,” Kevin hisses when the photographers dissipate. “Next time they're here—”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle some PR,” Allison says. She waves a photographer over and steals an hor d'oeuvre from Neil's plate, then pops it into her mouth, laughing. “Put your arm around my shoulders.”

Neil does, so mechanically it looks robotic, but Allison grabs his hand and pulls him closer. Andrew flinches a little at that—she didn't ask, and Neil is picky about his hands—

“God, I'm glad I'm not famous, aren't you?” Katelyn says. She's sitting on Renee's other side, talking at Andrew, presumably because she has a death wish like every other fucking athlete at their school, but it's Renee who answers.

“Allison seems to be having fun,” she says.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Andrew almost finds that funny. It's the closest to spiteful he's ever heard Renee sound. Maybe he should be betting on them the same way they bet on him.

“Poor Neil, though,” Katelyn says. She's still looking at Andrew. “Having to pretend you're not interested in the person you're really in love with is kind of difficult.”

“These rolls are amazing,” Aaron says loudly. “What kind of bread is this, Katelyn? Would you call this a sourdough?”

“I agree,” Renee says. 

She's watching Allison. Of course she is. They've talked about this at length, she and Andrew, Renee refusing to be mean about it, Andrew doing it for her. Her thing for Allison. Allison's apparent indifference. Her touchy-feeliness at the same level with Renee as it is with Dan and Neil. How Renee can't understand it. How she knows she should say something but she worries Allison's not okay yet, worries she'll be taking advantage of her mourning even though it's been a year, worries Allison won't be interested and it'll mess with their team chemistry. 

“Are you and Jean going to see each other, Renee?” Katelyn asks, an innocent question that baffles Renee. 

“I guess so,” she says. “I mean, I hope so. I haven't seen him since—I think probably since he moved to California. He seems to be enjoying it there.”

“Everyone at USC seems like such a sweetheart,” Katelyn says, and abruptly Andrew can't find it within himself to even care about this conversation enough to listen to it anymore. 

Renee's right about Allison. She is absurdly tactile, touchier with Neil than anyone else is other than Andrew, like she can sense how ridiculously touch-starved he is. She's still holding his hand, and he's letting her even though he looks tense. With her other hand, she's playing with a champagne flute—hers filled with actual champagne since she's over twenty-one. 

She's leaning on Neil's shoulder, too, and they do look like a couple, especially sitting down, when you can't see how much taller than him she is in heels. 

They don't move apart until servers come around with their food, Neil taking his arm back and instantly looking like he'd rather be anywhere else again. He picks at his food the way he does when he's not really hungry, and then, like he knows exactly what Andrew is thinking, looks up directly into Andrew's eyes. 

He's so bad at this, Andrew thinks. If Kevin's right and Neil's life really depends on PR, then Neil is absolutely going to die. Neil looks like he's doing that thing where he thinks he can read Andrew's mind, and he grins at whatever he sees on Andrew's face. 

“Finally,” Allison says, too loud. “I've been trying to get you to lighten up all night!” 

She leans into him and takes a selfie while the smile's still frozen on Neil's face, then does something on her phone and repositions herself a carefully neutral distance from him. Everyone can see right through Neil, Andrew thinks, and it'd be hilarious if he were still medicated.

Now, it just nettles at Andrew's instincts, which have been carefully honed to reject anyone who isn't tied to him by blood or his own intricate network of deals. He knows that's ridiculous, though, and he forcibly averts his eyes so that he's looking at his own date again.

Renee, too, looks like she can read his mind. 

“It's only a few more hours,” she says. “Then we just have the bus ride home.”

“It could be another week for all I care,” Andrew says. 

Renee laughs a little. “You didn't use to lie to me.”

He really didn't. Andrew taps his fingers against the table, craving a cigarette. They're not supposed to smoke tonight—“NCAA athletes _do not smoke_ ,” Wymack told them as they got off the bus, cigarette in his own hand—but the bathroom has a window that looks like the screen can easily be knocked out of it. 

“If you get caught, the whole team will be penalized,” Renee says, less like a warning and more like it's just a fact. Andrew rests his chin on his hand and looks back at Neil. 

“Like I said,” Andrew says. “Couldn't care less.”

*

The meal part of the fall banquet has always been the most boring, even though Allison can legally drink now and is half a bottle of champagne in. Better is the milling about and dancing part, especially because someone has spiked the punch with something strong this year.

“Are you hitting on me?” Allison says, cocking her head to the side and peering up at the Bearcat who filled Neil's spot at Allison's side the moment Neil moved. So much for giving off the air of a real couple. “Because if you are, you have to tell me, you know. Otherwise it's entrapment.”

“That's police,” the Bearcat says.

“And it's not even accurate,” Kevin says, irritable, no doubt because no one's paying him any attention and both his shadows have disappeared to the drinks table without him. He's as drunk as Allison. “Of _course_ they don't have to tell you when you ask—otherwise how could any undercover cop do _anything_ —”

“Kevin Day, starting striker, Palmetto State Foxes and United States Court,” Allison says, smiling broadly and gesturing to Kevin, who, in his suit, is actually creating the illusion of an attractive person. “Meet Serpico.”

“It's Simon Meyers, actually, we've met, remember last year when—”

Allison ducks behind Kevin to find Renee, who is fraternizing with the enemy: Jean Moreau, also tall and foreboding in his suit, though in classic black, white and red, he looks significantly less foreboding than he did in the Ravens attire she saw him in last year. 

Allison swings an arm around Renee's shoulders, no doubt coming off more possessive than casual, and gives Jean her best Page Six smile. 

“Reynolds,” Jean says, tipping his head slightly. “Your date looks lonely.”

She looks where he's looking, toward a Neil who is currently being ambushed by some relatively harmless Trojan, and decides that actually, she feels possessive over Neil too. She lets go of Renee and shifts so that she's blocking Jean's view of him. 

“I don't tend to leave dates unsatisfied,” Allison says. 

“Jean was just telling me how much he's enjoying California,” Renee says. “You like SoCal, too, right?”

Allison puts on her very best Malibu Barbie voice. “It's, like, so great. The sun! The beach! None of—” she waves a hand around them even though they're indoors and there isn't a window in sight. “—all this. You know. Cold, or whatever.”

Jean nods. “Although we would be grateful for some of the rain.”

“You'll be a famous professional athlete,” Allison says. “You won't have to worry about that.”

Renee gives her that disappointed look she gets sometimes when Allison says things likes this. Allison rolls her eyes—it's not like she meant it, not really, of course the drought is worrying, but it's true that rich athletes won't have to deal with the consequences of what capitalism has wrought or whatever.

“I've heard the drought's just about over, anyway,” Renee says, smiling kindly at Jean, which annoys Allison—irrationally. It shouldn't annoy her. She's being nice to Jean. She has every right to be nice to Jean. Jean has never done anything to either of them except on an exy court. 

Except that it does annoy her. Something's been niggling at her all night, ever since Andrew dragged Neil off in the bus by the end of his tie and Neil followed along like he was on a leash. Or maybe before that, since Kevin decided for the four of them who their dates would be and Andrew and Neil just went with it. Christ, she's not supposed to be a fucking punishment. She's not a _beard_. She's Allison _fucking_ Reynolds, and they should respect that, probably, shouldn't they? 

Except then Neil is tapping her shoulder, and what's that line—speak of the devil and he shall, whatever, tap you on the shoulder and ask you to continue your absurd charade? She should ask Renee. She starts to ask Renee, actually, opens her mouth and all, except that Andrew Minyard has sidled right up to his own date (that's not quite accurate. He's replaced Allison between Neil and Jean, but Allison is trying to catch Renee's eye to ask her about the Bible and so she willfully misinterprets it) to distract her from Allison.

Neil hands her a cup of the punch. “I didn't realize it'd be spiked.”

“Here I was thinking you got me a drink because you're my date,” Allison says, drinking from it anyway.

“Kevin says we're supposed to dance,” he says, looking glum about it.

“Remind me again why you do literally everything he says,” Allison says. It's unfair—she's seen Neil hit Kevin more than once—but her foul mood can't be dissipated by logic alone. 

“He'd know better than I would what'd be best for my career.” Neil looks a little sheepish. Poor idiot never could keep an ounce of emotion off his face. 

“So?” Allison says. “Fuck it—you really think if you don't bring a date to something like this, a pro team'll pass on you?”

“It's not just about being pro. It's about being the best, and to be the best you have to play for the best, and to play for the best you have to play the game.”

“You sound like him.”

Neil is looking at Allison's shoulder. Or, no, he's trying to look over her shoulder at Andrew, but Allison's heels put her at a solid five inches above Neil's head, which means they put her at a solid eight above Andrew's. 

“Good,” Neil says, though he sounds thoroughly disturbed by the concept.

“Fine,” Allison says. “Let's dance.”

“Why are _you_ in such an awful mood?” Neil says, like that's his conception of dancing, just sort of jerking his shoulder up and down. “You're not the one with an actual—”

He trails off—he's still trying to catch a glimpse of Andrew, and it's hilarious, the way they have, like, magnet vision for each other or whatever—and Allison chooses not to answer his question.

Instead, she goes for the kill shot.

“An actual what?” she says.

“You know, a—a person.”

“I don't have a person?” Allison says. “Do you have a person, Josten?”

He stares at her, unimpressed, and at once the unfairness of it all hits her. She's here at this stupid banquet looking possibly the hottest she's _ever_ looked, has gotten hit on by multiple people who are definitely _not_ getting her number, and her date is only interested in a monster the size of a literal pint of milk and a sport that's really more violence than sport. She's wearing stilettos that cost a fortune, a dress that highlights all her best assets (which, she thinks savagely, are _all_ her assets), murder-red lipstick, and an excellent bra. She turns, too, with a half a mind to just start grinding on Neil to see how he reacts, and then catches sight of Renee and Andrew. They're not dancing, just standing against the wall talking quietly in that frustrating way they have, and Allison knows Andrew is gay and Renee wouldn't be interested anyway, but there is the whole Jean issue and—

And anyway, what does Allison care? She's wasted on NCAA exy players, all of them, but especially her date, who right now is still leveling that unimpressed gaze at her.

“What?” Allison says. 

“You know that thing you said about magnet vision at practice a few weeks ago?” Neil says, and yes, Allison is repetitive when she comes up with clever phrases, who isn't? Aaron Sorkin reuses entire sets of dialogue and no one calls him out. Well, they do, but then they keep hiring him. “Do you ever think maybe you know it from experience?”

“Neil Josten,” Allison says, almost delighted. “Did you just say 'takes one to know one' to me?”

“I don't even know what that means,” Neil says. “But the point stands, doesn't it?”

“We're the only sane, single Foxes,” Allison says. “It makes sense that we'd have, like, shared moments of what-the-fuckery.”

“Is that what this is?” Neil says. His mouth is twitching, but he's never smiled without Andrew around before and he's not going to start now. “A shared moment of what-the-fuckery?”

“Fuck off,” Allison says, shoving his shoulder lightly and going to find Dan.

Except that it's Kevin who steps into her path, glaring. “You need to go back to Neil.”

“You need to stop telling me what to do.”

“You do not understand,” Kevin says. “This is life or death.”

“It's _exy_.”

“You of all people should know why that means that it _is_ life or death,” Kevin says, which—

Is unfair. And also a low blow, lower than she was expecting even given how shit the last fall banquet was.

And, actually, it's the cap on all of it, isn't it? Because her freshman and sophomore years, she loved the fall banquet—a chance to show off, a chance to look good, a chance to socialize, all things she used to love. Still loves. Loves but doesn't have the energy to think about. 

Last year was just a fight wrapped in another fight wrapped in putting on airs for everyone who needed to see that the Foxes could still function as a team even with one of their players dead of apparent suicide. This year should be better. They're reigning champions, people want to talk to them, people talk to them like they're actually respectable. It should be _fun_ , just like exy should be fun, just like exy _is_ fun when Kevin isn't there making everything about it fucking miserable. Because _he's_ miserable, isn't he, when he's doing anything other than playing and even then it's less like he's happy and more like he just has a purpose, and Jesus, she's always put him just below Nicky in terms of monster awfulness, but he's just as bad as Andrew, isn't he, except that Andrew's obsessed with people surviving and Kevin's just _such_ an asshole.

“You're just such an asshole,” Allison says. 

Kevin doesn't look perturbed. “I've heard,” he says. 

“No, I mean it.” She moves closer, so that she's in his space, and she ignores how irritated he looks and the _danger_ signs going off in her head—last time she touched one of Andrew's possessions, she nearly got killed for it—and bares her teeth. “You're an asshole. You don't get to talk about Seth.”

Kevin winces even though she hasn't touched him, and Allison blinks—does the monster have some human in him after all?—but he switches back just as quickly.

“People are looking at us,” he says. “Go back to your date. Enjoy the evening. He needs to be Court, and he will not be if the narrative surrounding him does not change.”

“Fuck you, Kevin,” Allison says, shoving him as hard as she can.

His center of gravity must be low—he weighs a ton even though he's tall—but he teeters on one foot for a moment like a cartoon character before toppling over and hitting the ground. He must be drunker than she thought.

People turn to look, even Andrew, but Kevin laughs, reaches for Allison's hand, uses it to leverage himself back up and keeps hold of it for a moment to steady himself. 

“Silly me,” he says loudly. “I run around on these courts all day long, but put me in some some oxfords and I might as well be on ice.”

A few people chuckle. Andrew doesn't look convinced, but Kevin's little stunt seems to have, if nothing else, quelled Andrew's anger. She'll probably end up dead on the bus ride back to Palmetto, but she's too drunk and pissed off to care.

She runs into Neil next, being accosted by Penn's offensive dealer, because he does, after all, look nice in the suit Allison made him buy.

She hooks an arm through his, possessive all over again.

“Who's trying to steal you this time?” she says, mostly joking, trying to unwind some of the tension.

“Uh—this is—” Neil says, glaring at Allison like she's just pushed _him_ over in the middle of an exy court filled with competitive athletes. “Um—sorry, what was your—”

“Seriously?” the girl says. “I just told you, like, maybe two minutes ago?”

“He's always been bad with names,” Allison says, trying to revive her Malibu Barbie smile. “He called me Melissa for the first three months he was on the team!”

“No, I—” Neil says, only stopping when Allison pinches him.

“It's Brittany,” the girl says. “I was just asking Neil if you were his girlfriend.”

“Close enough,” Allison says cheerfully. “I'm going to have to steal him away now, sorry!”

“Thanks,” Neil says weakly once he's been safely redirected from poor Brittany. “Maybe Kevin was right about having a date after all. She kept asking for my number, and I just thought, like, why does anyone need to know where I am?”

“Honest Neil is hilarious,” Allison says. “Tragic, but hilarious. You know people use phones just to keep in touch, right?”

Neil looks baffled as to why anyone would want to do that. It's like she said: an American tragedy.

“Let's go find Andrew and Renee,” Neil says. “That way we can at least pretend to be dating while we hang out with who we'd really liked to have come with.”

It takes Allison a moment to parse the grammar, but when she does, she glares at him.

“What does that mean?” she says.

“Oh, come on, Allison,” Neil says. “Everyone can tell. No one knows why neither of you have done anything about it yet, but the betting's not on _if_ , it's on _when_.”

“Betting?” Allison says. “Why wasn't I informed?”

“Because it's about you, presumably.”

“What did you bet on?” Allison says. “I'll time it for you and we can split the proceeds.”

“I didn't,” Neil says. “You don't smoke, do you?”

“Neil, we're in an exy court filled with NCAA athletes. Most coaches aren't Wymack.”

“I just thought we could all go out for a cigarette,” Neil says. He's eyeing Andrew. 

“Why? Because otherwise Andrew's going to smoke in the bathroom and set off fire alarms like a high school rebel?”

Neil does that mouth twitch again. It's heart-warming, really. It's closer to amused than he ever used to look before, which means maybe this whole Andrew Minyard thing is good for him after all, even if none of the rest of the Foxes understand it.

“Let's get another drink,” Allison says.

*

They get through most of the NCAA-mandated two hours of mingling before something happens.

Well—the night couldn't end without some drama. They're still the Foxes, after all, even if they are NCAA champions. 

It's Jean who triggers it, really, even though he doesn't do anything in particular.

He just—he has his hand at Renee's waist, and maybe it's just a European thing, like he's super tactile because he's from the city of love, whatever, wherever he's from, Paris or Venice or—it doesn't matter. It's Jean's fault. 

Allison is possessive. She can cop to that. She's possessive of all the Foxes, like they're her siblings or her kids or her, her wards. Sure. Whatever. Still, when Jean touches Renee, it should be totally fine—he's gesticulating with the other hand, and Jeremy Knox is standing next to them, laughing his stupid SoCal laugh like everything's totally normal even though it so clearly is _not_ , and Allison sees red. 

“Hi,” she half-says, half purrs, pouring herself over Knox's arm and smiling at Renee. She wanted to stop being this person, the kind of person who got pissed off and tried to make people jealous or—or whatever it is she's feeling. She used to play this game with Seth, and it wasn't fun and she's supposed to be mature now, so why, why—“Have we met before?”

“Uh—I don't think so,” Knox says. “Not properly, anyway.” He extracts his arm so he can shake her hand. Maybe it's not SoCal. Maybe it's good midwestern boy. Yeah, he has that classic American farm boy look about him, like he was homecoming king and captain of the football team and dated the head cheerleader. 

Except exy players aren't like that. Exy players have a mean streak, a darkness, even if they aren't Foxes. Allison holds his fingers hard enough to hurt.

Knox laughs that SoCal laugh again. “Wow, what a handshake,” he says. “Jean, have you met Allison? Seriously, you've gotta see what it feels like to have your hand almost taken off your arm—hope we play you guys again this year just so I can see you do that on a court.”

“We've met,” Jean says. 

Knox glances at him and then back at Allison, seems to connect the dots—former Raven, current Fox—and blinks a little stupidly.

Then he says, “Oh, right. Well—Allison, Renee was actually just talking about you. She says—”

“I don't care what she says, really,” Allison says. Jean's hand isn't at Renee's waist anymore, is threaded casually through one of Knox's belt loops. Fucking Europeans. “I was just here to introduce myself.”

“What an introduction,” Knox says, smile ever-sunny. Allison can't stand people like that, constantly smiling, like they're heaven's personal angels here to make the rest of them look bad. 

They keep talking, except that Allison can't focus, and then—

And then.

*

“Where is your date?” Kevin says when he finds Andrew alone at the drinks table contemplating the obviously spiked punch.

“She's fraternizing with your old pal,” Andrew says. “Where's Neil?”

“Trying to ruin his career and both our lives,” Kevin says, gesturing to where Neil is definitely trying to get away from some college reporters. “Did you know Jeremy Knox is dating Jean?”

“What does that mean for his career?” Andrew half-sneers. “Or are you jealous?”

“Jean is not American, so what do I care if he makes the national team?” Kevin says, though he does look a little bothered. “I hope it does not limit Jeremy's chances.”

“Look around you,” Andrew says. “No one cares. You were wrong.”

“I was not,” Kevin says, but he throws back his own cup of the spiked punch. “Wait, what is she doing?”

As they watch, Reynolds marches up to where Renee, Jean, and Jeremy Knox are having what looks to be a perfectly civil conversation, then apparently tries to separate Jeremy's hand from the rest of his body. Then she's shouting, loud enough for all of them to hear:

“It's just that this is ridiculous!” she says. “Really? I mean, _Jean Moreau_? Someone so damaged he puts _Neil Josten_ to shame?”

Andrew would be offended on Neil's behalf if Neil weren't currently a step away from laughing. It's a nice change for Neil, probably, that the drama surrounding the Foxes isn't lethal for once.

And then _Jeremy Knox_ intervenes, opening his mouth, no doubt to defend his man's honor, but Allison cuts him off.

“Listen, Wisconsin!” Allison yells (and at this Kevin looks horrified, as if being called “Wisconsin” is some great insult). “This doesn't fucking concern you!”

“The Moriyamas are going to kill us all,” Kevin says quietly, more resigned and accepting than it used to be. “None of us will go pro, and then they will slaughter us one by one. I hope they start with Neil, since all this is his fault, but—”

Andrew debates stabbing him, but instead he takes one of the spiked punches and sips from it. It's very spiked. Very sweet, too. 

Allison is still going—more about how Renee makes poor choices (“Remember Minyard!” she's saying, which makes no sense, because if anyone knew he and Renee weren't going to be an item, it was Allison)—until Renee says, quite coldly, “Stop.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, and then Allison turns on her heel and leaves.

*

It's brisk outside, and Allison's coat is still checked inside somewhere, the little ticket tucked in her bra. She rubs her arms with both hands and tries to figure out when she became this type of person, the type of person who makes a scene at a party and then, instead of smiling and owning it, flees.

The moon is out. Allison has always liked the moon, liked the way she can fade into nothingness at night. She likes the spotlight, but there's power in disappearing, too, like she disappeared from the rich kid party scene and left a gap wannabes have been trying to fill ever since. Or like Kevin disappeared from the Ravens, like Seth disappeared from her life. 

“Hey.”

Allison turns. It's Renee, wearing her own coat and holding out Allison's.

“How did you get the coat check guy to give it to you?” Allison says. 

Renee shrugs, which is cruel—the story is probably excellent. Allison will have to get it out of Dan later.

“Are you going to explain?” Renee says.

“I,” Allison says, and stops.

It's just—

Allison's been thinking around the real issue all night, longer, months, maybe, her mind redirecting itself around that thing at its center but doing it in gradually smaller concentric circles, so that eventually—now—Allison can't ignore it anymore.

She looks at Renee, really looks at her. The moon gleams off the high points of Renee's face, works its way through her hair and leaves it shimmering, like silver. She looks so pretty in the moonlight. Allison has always thought so. Like the moon was hung in the sky just for her, sat there for millions of years or whatever waiting for Renee to show up and stand in its light and look like _that_ , Artemis almost, soft angles over hard muscle, that smile always knowing, never wry, understanding that despite everything awful in the world there's always the capacity for change and goodness and, incredibly, love.

They've seen too much, all of them, to still believe in it. But they do, don't they? Matt and Dan. Aaron and Katelyn. Neil and Andrew. 

It's apparent in Renee's smile, obvious, as if every time her lips curl up they're saying, of course we love. How could we not?

“I'm sorry,” Allison says at last. “And also—”

“And also?”

“And also, I think I'm in love with you.”

Renee jerks to look at her, shocked, as if this was the last thing she expected out of Allison's mouth.

“What?” Renee says.

“Or—I don't know, I mean, it's not—I like you, at least, and I do love you, but we haven't—I mean I like you in that I want—it'd be stupid to say—”

What is she talking about? She's never been this tongue-tied in her life, honest to god, she sounds fucking ridiculous.

“It's not stupid,” Renee says, and Allison thinks that every time she looked up at dinner tonight, there was Renee, ready to share that “all you need is love” smile of hers. Magnet vision. Neil was right.

“It's not stupid,” Allison says. It comes out like a question, but it shouldn't, because, shit, Allison is supposed to be the one who's good at this, isn't she? Wasn't she the one who figured out Neil and Andrew and Matt and Dan before anyone else?

Renee steps forward like she's huddling close for warmth, and then she angles her face upward like they're mid-argument, but instead of arguing she says, “It's not stupid.”

Allison kisses her, gets the angle wrong, hits teeth. She wants to laugh, but it feels wrong somehow, like if she laughs the odd sheen over the moment will shatter. Allison feels too tall in her giant heels and more than a little wobbly, drunk, giggles in the back of her throat threatening to escape.

Renee re-angles them, reaching up to wrap a hand around the back of Allison's neck and pull her close. Then she stops. 

“How drunk are you?” she says.

“Not that much,” Allison says. 

“How drunk are you?”

“Pretty drunk.”

Renee steps back.

“No, it isn't—I meant it,” Allison says. “I should've told you—ages ago. I didn't realize, I think, I don't know, but it—it's true. I do like you. I have for—I don't know. Forever, maybe.”

“Forever,” Renee echoes.

Allison bends to kiss her again, but Renee stops her. “We have a six hour bus ride,” she says. “If you've waited forever—”

Allison actually does laugh now. “Okay,” she says. “Fine. When I'm sober.”

“I think you should know,” Renee says. “Jean is dating Jeremy Knox.”

“He's—what?”

“Also, what you did tonight—it wasn't acceptable behavior,” Renee says. “You can't act like that, like I belong to you, or—”

“I know,” Allison says quickly. “I know, I know, I was just—”

“Let me finish,” Renee says. “You were dating someone for months. I did not yell at him or you in front of hundreds of people.”

Allison looks away. 

“You're right,” she says. “I'm sorry.” 

“Okay,” Renee says. She reaches forward, works her fingers into the buttonholes in Allison's coat, and pulls Allison closer. “Forever?” 

“I don't know,” Allison says. “Maybe.”

Renee smiles, and Allison thinks, yeah. Probably.

*

Neil darted into the restroom alone after his date left, probably expecting to be able to hide in there for the half hour until they can all finally leave.

Or maybe he didn't, because it's not until Andrew follows him in that Neil locks the door and gives the open window's screen an experimental push.

“What if someone needs to use the bathroom?” Andrew says. 

“They can use the women's room,” Neil says, tugging a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offering it to Andrew. 

“What if the fire alarm goes off?”

Neil puts his hand in his other pocket and takes out a battery. 

“It won't,” he says.

“When did you do that?”

“One of the twelve times I ran away to the bathroom,” Neil admits, pressing right up against the wall to light his cigarette.

Andrew walks up to him until he can't anymore, their legs flush against each other, and wraps a hand around Neil's tie again. He gives it an experimental tug, and Neil's head follows.

“Yes or no?” Andrew says. 

“Never been more yes,” Neil says.

“You talk too much.”

“No one's ever said that to me before.”

“They should,” Andrew says, and kisses him.

It's like—the top coming off a pressure cooker, maybe, Neil's hands knotting into Andrew's hair and twisting almost tight enough to hurt, and if they continue this way Andrew's going to be bald by twenty-five, which, he thinks, an odd, floaty feeling in the pit of his stomach, is older than he ever imagined himself being when he was younger. There's a part of Andrew that wants more than this, than kissing in a college exy court's public restroom, wants to blow Neil or maybe just curl his fingers in Neil's hair and feel him next to him like they're a couple and not just whatever it is they are. 

But if he has to be satisfied with just this for the moment, he's going to make it count, and he eases off Neil's mouth to drop to his neck. The back of Neil's head hits the wall next to the window, and Andrew keeps one hand at Neil's hip, brushing his thumb back and forth over the muscle and bone there.

They don't get to spend enough time there. It's fine—Palmetto is only six hours away, and Andrew is patient. Still, it's too soon when Kevin calls Andrew and Wymack calls Neil. Neither of them answer.

“We need to go back,” Neil says. 

Wymack is calling Andrew now. Neil's fingers are curled through Andrew's belt loops. Andrew answers anyway. 

“Where the fuck are you two?” Wymack says, sounding exasperated, but also—relieved. It makes sense. The last time one of his players disappeared at an NCAA-sanctioned event, he resurfaced with half the skin on his face burned off.

“Neil thinks he ate some bad fish,” Andrew says. “We'll be right out.”

“They didn't serve—” Wymack says, but Andrew hangs up before he can finish the sentence.

Neil presses a last kiss to the side of Andrew's face and releases him. 

“How disheveled do I look?” Neil says. 

“Look for yourself,” Andrew says, gesturing to a mirror but fixing Neil's tie anyway, smoothing down the mess of his hair. 

He leaves without checking to see if Neil does look in the mirror—Andrew knows him well enough to know he won't—and they join the rest of the Foxes as they leave. Neil only gets hounded by a player from some other team once, but Andrew drags Neil away by the corner of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” Neil says, not quietly enough, and hurries to where the Foxes form a much more familiar huddle by the exit. 

“You smell like cigarettes,” Wymack says, a little accusing. “I told you to leave them on the bus.”

“You're just smelling yourself,” Andrew says, turning out his pockets. “See? No contraband.”

Wymack casts a dirty look toward Neil, who just stares coolly and unconvincingly back.

Renee and Allison still aren't with the team, but it doesn't seem to surprise anyone. When Andrew gets outside, he spots the two of them leaning up against the bus, facing each other, close enough to touch. Renee is smiling, but Allison is, too, looking a little dazed.

He should've put money on it. Matt is handing some to a triumphant Dan, and Katelyn is collecting from Aaron and Nicky. 

“Finally,” Neil says. 

They all clamber onto the bus. The girls start changing out of their nice clothes when it starts moving, but everyone else just sits down. Neil starts to make his way toward Allison, but Andrew catches his sleeve, and Neil gives him that irritating little smile of his, like Andrew's just failed a test. 

Neil was right, and he's going to be smug about it, but Andrew doesn't care. He might've gone to the banquet with Allison, but he's leaving with Andrew. It's Allison's knot around his throat but Andrew's hickey stamped underneath, a rapidly darkening mark that keeps catching at the edge of Andrew's vision. 

It's stupid and irrational to be jealous of Allison, especially when it comes to Neil, who still insists the only way he swings is toward Andrew. Still, Andrew sits next to Neil instead of behind him, their thighs pressed together on the seat even though there's ample room. 

Neil slumps low in his seat, jacket over his lap like a blanket. He looks up at Andrew, questioning, and when Andrew nods, rests his head on Andrew's shoulder. Neil stretches his hand across his own thigh, palm facing up, an invitation, and when Andrew rests his hand there (just barely—fingertips at the heel of Neil's hand, palm pressed against Neil's pulse, thumb circling his wrist), Neil curls his fingers inward and stays like that. He exhales, slow, and then inhales, steady.

The breath sticks in Andrew's throat. He stares ahead at the seat in front of them and stays perfectly still.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr ([fandom](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/) | [main](http://osaudade.tumblr.com)). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


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